The white man is the measure of all things, and of all things the measure is the white man. That was how I felt when we latched arms. Oh. No matter what any moment holds, memory makes of it either nothing at all or unending terror, or ceaseless grief. All I have left of that night are flashes of her diamond ear-bobs, the swells of her moving against me like tides, the feel of her, like a taste I couldn't get out of my mouth. pg. 127

ArapahoeAnnaL's rating:
[]
[]
To Top